


A Story About Me

by shella688



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen, In the style of a Night Vale episode, Night Vale-typical Existentialism, basically this is "what if there was another in the story about you/them/us series?", cherry picking the timeline for fun and profit, no major spoilers for anything really, something funky is going on with the 4th wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:42:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24475954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shella688/pseuds/shella688
Summary: This title seems familiar, but this is not the format you were expecting
Comments: 18
Kudos: 16





	A Story About Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [История обо мне](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25284709) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)



> Weather: [Utopia, by Reesha Dyer](https://reeshadyer.bandcamp.com/track/utopia)

This is a story about me, said the man on the radio, and I was excited, because I never thought I'd get to hear my story read out on the radio.

Welcome, to Night Vale.

* * *

I live in a normal Night Vale house, down a normal Night Vale street, says the man on the radio. I have not always lived here. I have lived in bungalows, and flats, and holes in the ground, and once I lived in caves that have never known sunlight, deep within the mountains.

In fact, I have not always lived in Night Vale. This doesn't mean I moved; I have been here long before this town existed, and, when it all crumbles into dust and forgotten stories, I will be here still, one way or another.

The man on the radio pauses. These are not the words he expected to read - they are not the words he _wanted_ to read - but they are the words I have written, and so he must carry on.

I am neither tall nor short. Once, I was a man. Before that, I was a woman. Now, I am both, or maybe I am neither, depending on how you look at it. Soon I will be something else again - though I cannot tell the future to say what, and neither can the man on the radio, who can only ever read my words.

I turn off the radio in my kitchen. The man on the radio still speaks, describing how I pulled on my boots but didn't lace them up, how I left my house without locking the door behind me. These are not words I need to hear, but they must still be spoken, because they all form my story.

The radio in my car crackles on as I start the engine. The man on the radio is wondering if there is anyone else out there listening.

 _Yes, of course there is_ , he thinks, disgusted at his doubt. Although, maybe it would be more accurate to say _my_ doubt. After all, the man on the radio can do nothing but read.

Of course there are people listening!, he thinks again. This is a Community Radio Station, emphasis on the _Community_. Outside of the four walls of his recording booth are people - friends and family and nemeses and acquaintances and everyone in between. It is those people who are listening to his words, or, listening to my words through his voice. And, if they are not listening, well, then at least they are _aware_ , and that's close enough. At least he has still made a difference, in some small way.

I do not agree.

What proof does he have, the man on the radio, that anyone is out there? All he has are the words I gave him, and all _I_ have are those words repeated back at me, over and over and over and-

He stops.

I stop.

We both stop, breathing heavily, looking desperately around the empty spaces before us for someone who _is not there_. The space gnaws at our hearts because we know that this is wrong but we cannot fathom any other way to be. My words and his voice and his words where they are not wanted and my voice where it cannot be heard-

 _ **No!**_ shouts the man on the radio. These thoughts are not his thoughts! He has a family, and friends, and both groups love him, though they love in different ways. There are people out there for him, and surely, he thinks, there is someone out there for me.

There is not.

I do not think there ever was.  
  


The man on the radio doesn't know what to say to this.

Who am I? he asks at last. Except-   
Except that is _not_ what he says.

He does not ask _who am I?_ , he knows well enough who _he_ is. No, the man on the radio asks  
 _Who are you?_

These words are not my words any more. The man on the radio is going off script and though he is still telling a story about me, it is no longer _my_ story. 

Who _are_ you? he asks again.

And as the Weather rolls in, I do not know what to say.

* * *

The man on the radio has not recieved an answer. Maybe the man on the radio never will recieve an answer, and maybe I will just sit in silence, listening to his voice, until at last he stops talking.

A pause. A long pause that is not empty of sound, but is nevertheless empty of anything meaningful.

Every day except Tuesdays I go to work, says the man on the radio. He is, finally, back on script.

Every day except Tuesdays I go to work. It is not _good_ work - the hours are far too long and the pay is far too little - but it is work, and I need the money. Some days I hardly see the sun I am inside so long.

On Tuesdays I get into my car and drive out into the desert. I drive until I cannot see Night Vale anymore - until I am surrounded by the sand and the sky and the heat and the quiet. Then, I walk, leaving even my car behind.

Above me, there are no clouds. Above me, a bird circles. Above me, I see a-

The man on the radio keeps stopping. It is his job to read my words and yet again and again he does not. Why does he not read?

Above me-

The man on the radio does not want to read on. He is concerned no- _afraid_ of the words I have written. He knows what will come next, or he thinks he does, and he thinks that by refusing to read he can stop it.

It is too late for that. The words have already been written and the man on the radio can do Nothing. But. Read.

He still refuses. This story has been told before, thinks the man on the radio, it does not need to be told again - not when he might have the power to change it.

Once again, the man on the radio is wrong. This is not a story about him, or you, or them, or us, though the us did not include me.

This is a story about me, and it will be heard.

The man on the radio takes a deep breath. He reads on.

Above me, there are no clouds. Above me, a bird circles. Above me, I see a planet, of awesome size, lit by no sun. An invisible titan, all thick black forests and turbulent oceans.

Every time I come here it's closer. And now, after so long, it hangs right above me. Maybe, if I try, I could _touch it_.

I reach up...  
  


The words end, the story ends. The man on the radio will move on to other things, though he will not forget what he has read.

This was a story about me, and, at last, it was heard.

Goodnight, Night Vale.  
Goodnight.


End file.
